


It's Not About Love.

by initialthrow



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Secrets, Fluff, Love, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Secrets, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29042922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/initialthrow/pseuds/initialthrow
Summary: Florence returns to Small Heath after too many years away, and things have changed. She has changed. Her old friends aren't her friends anymore and she finally has to face up to the demons of her past. Or rather, the Shelby's. And they won't give in until they know why she left.A story of unrelenting devotion, timeless love and two people whoneedeach other.Set in Season 1, eventual Tommy/oc.
Relationships: Ada Shelby/Freddie Thorne, Esme Shelby/John Shelby, John Shelby & Original Female Character(s), Polly Gray & Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	1. Respect

Florence Fenton wasn’t an unfamiliar face in Small Heath. In fact, she had lived there for most of her life. She had spent her childhood running barefoot on the cobblestones and her teenage years rolling on them. Yet the walk from the train station to The Garrison pub couldn’t have felt more alien to her. A lot had happened in the six years since she’d last set foot in Birmingham. As she walked, the fact dawned on her that maybe it was her that was now unfamiliar. Her face was the same. She still had the striking features, thin long nose, full lips, eyes that seemed both dark and light at the same time. Her hair was brown and thick and long, but shone auburn in sunlight. She was no beauty, but she was something different, and she knew that. What had changed was her mind. She was changed by what she had been through and the things she had seen, the men she had tried to save but couldn’t. Florence had spent the years of the war nursing on the frontline in France, driven by the guilt of not doing anything at home while men risked their lives. Men she loved. Her father, Harry, was not able to fight, but there were others she was close to. They all made it back, but her heart had broken every time she had held the hand of a dying man.

Florence Fenton knew she had to come back to Small Heath at some point. She had left the year before the war began, when she was only 18 because her father couldn’t cope with her reckless behaviour any more. She had left the people she loved behind without a word. Regret did not come close to describing what she felt about not saying goodbye to them. Six years on, and she knew things would never be the same. For the sake of her family, she had to come back. Her stepmother was sick, very sick. Her father needed support, someone to trust who knew how to run his pub for him. Her little brother needed his big sister.

Florence Fenton knew she’d be safe on the streets of Small Heath, but that didn’t stop her from wrapping her fingers around the handgun in her pocket. A chill passed through the air and she wrapped her bottle green trench coat around her a little tighter. She carried a single suitcase, which held the majority of her belongings, and walked with a purpose that was rarely seen in women in those days, her leather boots slapping down hard on the road. The distinct echo followed her. Despite her circumstances, to any passerby she looked proud to be living the life she was. Except no one saw her. It was the early hours of the morning when she arrived in Small Heath and no one was awake yet, or so she thought.

A man watched from his window at the woman passing on the road beneath him. He couldn’t sleep, plagued by dreams of war and suffering. He took a deep breath as he observed her passing. Thomas Shelby recognised Florence Fenton immediately. He knew that long dark hair, that bottle-green coat, that self-assured gait from a mile off. It was her, certainly. He hadn’t seen the woman since long before the war and back then she was only a girl. A girl who disappeared into the night without a word, after years of eating dinner with his family. Running a hand through his hair, the first rays of sunlight began to appear through the window as he reflected on his past friendship with her. Little Miss Fenton. His Flo. There was a time he called her his best friend. She knew all of his secrets and he knew all of hers. He’d spent more nights than he could count sneaking her out of her house and then tucking her back into her bed again hours later, drunk and giggly. They’d spent so much time riding horses into the country and talking and talking and talking. Thomas Shelby hadn’t talked like that since she left. Stepping away from the window, he made a mental note to stop by at The Garrison later that morning. He knew that was where she’d be, with her father running the pub. She would be trouble, he thought, but he needed to know exactly how much trouble she was worth. 

*****

She stopped in her tracks as The Garrison came into sight. Florence was struck by the emotion that welled inside her upon seeing the place where she’d spent her childhood once again. She recalled the times while her mother was sick that her dad would sit her on the bar while he worked and the regulars would bring her sweets. He tried so hard to keep her out of trouble. So much for his effort. Taking out her cigarettes and matches, Florence took a seat on the front step of the pub. She knew her dad wouldn’t be there for another hour or so.

Harry was shocked, to say the least, to find his eldest child sitting on the front steps of his establishment as the sun rose over Small Heath. For a split second, he thought the ghost of Florence’s mother had appeared in front of him. Though they’d exchanged letters, this was the first time he had seen his daughter face to face in nearly six years. 

She looked up at him, a smile gracing her lips, “Hi, dad.” It was the first phrase she had uttered aloud for hours, and she felt her voice catch in her throat. Under the eyes of her father, she felt like a little girl again. 

He didn’t say anything, only staring in shock, but she stepped forward and embraced him all the same. Harry pressed his face into his daughter’s hair. “You look just like your mother did”, was all he could manage in that overwhelming moment. But Florence already knew. She had always kept pictures of her mother.

Once they had pulled away, the pub was unlocked and they were warm inside, Harry took the time to really speak to Florence about what was going on. They sat at the bar together, just like they used to. Stepping into the pub felt like stepping into the past for Florence, a grown woman in an almost child-like state next to her father.

“Flo, love, I didn’t think you’d actually come back,” he uttered, shaking his head.

“To be honest, Dad, neither did I,” she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, “but things sounded really bad in your letters. I want to be here to help with whatever I can. I know how this place works,” she gestured to the structure surrounding them. Florence gave him a small smile, “I’ll do whatever you need me to. London was a bit much for me anyway.”

“Well, Helen’s not doing too well. I know the two of you never saw eye to eye, but she’ll be happy you’re here. Ed’s missed you the most, though.” 

“I’ve missed all of you too, Dad. Ed will probably want me to disappear again when I insist he learns to read and write.” She giggled, but her smile quickly faltered. “Look, do you mind if I stay in the room upstairs here? I don’t want to invade anyone’s privacy, not with Helen being ill and all.”

Harry sighed. “Flo, you know you’re welcome to come and live in the house with us, you-”

Florence cut him off, “I don’t really feel like sharing a room with my baby brother at the age of 25, thank you. Also, you and I both know that Helen wouldn’t be comfortable with me staying in the house.” Florence stopped to take out her cigarettes. “It makes sense for me to just stay here, that way I can come and work whenever you need me to-”

This time Harry stopped Florence. “I don’t have a problem with it, Flo. It’s the Shelby boys. What they say goes in these parts nowadays, especially when it comes to this pub. It’s their meeting place, you see,” Harry stops to point to the snug room on their right. “A lot of bad business happens in that room, so you’ll have to check it’s alright with them for you to be living upstairs, love.”

Florence huffed in exasperation, “But Dad! I-”.

“No buts, Flo. You want to keep yourself out of trouble, so the last thing you want to do is cross them. I know you used to be close with all of them, but things have changed around here since the war ended. We all have to work to stay on their good side, including you. Now, let’s get started, shall we…” Harry wandered off into the room behind the bar.

Florence didn’t bother arguing with her father, but more for his sake than her own. She knew he’d be disappointed in her if she started going against him from the moment she arrived. So, for the time being, she decided to let it go. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She found the thought of having to ask the Shelby’s for permission to live in her own Dad’s pub laughable. Why would they care if Florence was upstairs? Yes, the ceiling was probably paper thin, but she didn’t care to get involved in their ‘business’. The fondness she had felt for her memories of them were slowly bubbling into anger and confusion. Florence didn’t want to get on their bad side, but they didn’t want to get on hers either.

“Alright, Dad. Where do you want me first?” Florence followed after him.

*****

“Freddie Thorne, you cheeky bastard!” Florence smiled as she dragged herself out from behind the bar to greet her old friend. He looked just as shocked to see her as everyone else in The Garrison had that day. “Flo? Where did you come from?” He wrapped his arms around her frame as she approached him, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

The morning had been long for Florence, to say the least. After years of working in the pub as a teenager, she’d assumed it’d be easy work, especially compared to her nursing, and it was. But all morning, Harry had taken the time to show her off to each and everyone of his patrons. One of two conversations would ensue:“I never knew you had a daughter, Harry!” to which he would give them a breakdown of her life achievements - “She was a nurse on the front, you know!”. Or “I remember you, little Florence” and she would get an unwelcome pat on the head, or one time, a pinch of her cheeks. In any other instance, she would have bitten someone’s head off for patronising her in such a way, but she knew it made her dad happy and that was most important to her today. Her dad had finally left to go and check on her stepmother, so she was making the most of the peace.

Florence had almost forgotten about the existence of Freddie Thorne. When she was a teenager, when they were friends, he was one of the people that just sort of faded into the background. He was a sweet boy, followed Tommy around and hung off his every word, and he had a good heart, if she remembered correctly. And as he hugged her to his chest, she remembered them dancing together one time or another. An instance she was too drunk to remember properly, just a flash back to a second of a long night she’d forgotten. Freddie was part of their crowd that would sneak off to the dances at night. If there weren’t any dances, they would be riding off to the forest with booze Florence had stolen from the pub.

Freddie snapped her out of her thoughts, pulling away from her. “When did you get back? Or more like where did you go in the first place?” He shook his head at her, seeing in front of him the impossible girl that had left chaos in her wake when she first left Small Heath. She took the carefree parties with her and left a string of broken hearts behind her, if he remembered correctly.

She smiled at him as she made her way behind the bar. “Well, I was in France for a while. I was a nurse on the front.” As she said it, both of their smiles slowly dropped. Florence was kicking herself. She should have known better than to mention France. Just like that their lovely moment reminiscing in their youth was gone. It’s all shit, she thought.

Florence looked up at Freddie, with a slight shake of her head. “Anyway, what can I get you?” Florence said, but before Freddie could respond, the pub door swung open and a gust of wind blew through the pub. Thomas Shelby entered the premises and it felt as though his eyes pierced through her, as though she couldn’t take a breath as long as she held his gaze. He approached the bar, not taking his eyes off her until he settled on the barstool next to Freddie. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly and looked up at her again. “Florence,” He said, his tone seething. He nodded in acknowledgement, before turning to talk to Freddie.

Florence wasn’t having any of it, interrupting their conversation. “Nice to see you too, Tommy.” Her lips were pursed together, her eyes intense and unwavering. She had expected a comfortable reunion between the two of them and for him at least to be happy to see her. They had once been each others’ closest confidante’s and now he couldn’t afford her more than her name. She really wasn’t having any of it.

And likewise, Tommy hadn’t expected himself to be so dumbfounded in Florence’s presence. He had thought it all out, how he was going to confront her, tell her he wanted nothing to do with her now, but as soon as he set eyes on her he was lost for words. Up close, she looked just as he had pictured her in his mind in the years she’d been gone. Granted, her hair was longer, and her face looked a little tired, but nonetheless, she was the same girl he remembered, albeit a woman now. And a woman she was - maybe he just wasn’t looking before, but he hadn’t remembered the curves to her frame that her dress clung to now. Her hips a little wider, her body a little more fleshy than before. Before Florence could notice, Tommy raked his eyes up to her face, to look into those strange eyes she’d always had.

“It’ll be two whiskies for us, Florence. Irish.” He said, turning to Freddie once again to continue their conversation. Florence didn’t bother listening in, she didn’t care for getting involved where she didn’t need to be. She huffed and turned to grab the bottle for them. She already knew it was on the house. Her ears pricked up as she heard Freddie mention her name.

“…well, Flo here was in France too, weren’t you, darling? A nurse she says.” Freddie raises his glass to her and drinks.

“A nurse, eh? I must say you’ve never struck me as the nurturing type, Florence.” Tommy said, a torturous glint in his eye. He knew his comment would rile her up, striking a nerve in her she’d long forgotten about. Florence felt her temper flare as she looked at the two men, but she bit her tongue. Here he was, insulting her, after years apart from one another. ‘You never struck me as an arsehole, Thomas, now fuck off’, she wanted to say, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of troubling her. Instead, she chose to change the subject to something that she knew would piss him off.

“Yeah, I was. Who knew I would end up back here, living above The Garrison? Times are changing again…”, she drawled, raising an eyebrow as her lips bent into a smirk. 

Tommy looked at her, right at her. “And when were you thinking of letting me know about this arrangement, hm? I’m sure your dad has let you know how things work around here.” Florence knew exactly how to wear his patience thin, and after his cold reception, she found some pleasure in seeing him break a little.

“I didn’t think it was any of your business, Thomas. I’ll live where I want, and I don’t need your permission. I couldn’t give a fuck about what goes on down here, so long as you clean up after yourselves,” Florence said, her smirk still present on her lips as she began to busy herself with cleaning the bar.

Tommy looked dumbfounded. She knew from the way he looked at her that he was furious, but he wouldn’t let it show. “You know, I would have thought after all of these years you would have learned a bit of fucking respect by now,” he clicked his tongue at her, “shame.” Tommy shook his head at her, as though he was disappointed, but Florence knew it was all an act, that he was just trying to push her one step further, to see who would crack first. Freddie sniggered beside them, but neither of them noticed.

Florence crossed her arms, her blood boiling at the audacity of the man she thought would always be her friend. “You should know already that I only respect those who’ll show me the same courtesy.” She jutted her chin out at him like a defiant child.

Before Tommy could muster another word, the conversation was interrupted by the noise of a man hurtling into the pub, creating chaos in his wake, crashing into a table. Florence didn’t recognise him, but she recognised what was happening; she’d seen it in men she’d treated. War was nasty; it destroyed everything it touched, and this man’s mind was no exception. 

Before anyone else could jump into action, Florence reacted quickly, rushing over to the man who clearly had no clue what he was doing. “Alright,” she said, but before she could say anything else he struck her across the face, hard. Florence fell to the floor, her ears ringing, her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears. It felt like everything was going in slow motion. She felt blood trickle from her nose. It had been a long while since she’d been punched in the face, and she was determined not to cry in front of everyone in the pub. Gripping onto the bar, she pulled herself up and went to grab for a rag to wipe her bloodied nose, but someone else got there first. When she turned her head to look around, the pub was significantly calmer, the crazy man was gone, and Thomas Shelby was grabbing her chin, studying her face so carefully she could see his pupils dilating.

In her confused state, he guided her to the barstool and wiped the blood from her nose. There wasn’t a lot, but enough to smear the rag red. Tommy dumped it behind the bar, his eyes still on her face. He tilted her chin from side to side, observing the damage. 

“You’re alright.” He said. Florence nodded quickly even though she knew it wasn’t a question, but she felt like she was dreaming. And with that, he grabbed his hat, turned, and left.

*****

The year was 1912. It wasn’t rare for Tommy and Florence to ride out to the country together, just the two of them. It wasn’t too far, and they had their favourite spot atop a hill that looked like a little piece of heaven, as Florence referred to it. She had managed to steal a bottle of gin from the pub, and there they laid together in the grass, smoking and drinking and talking. Their trips into the country first began when Tommy taught Florence how to ride a horse. When she was a kid, she was terrified of them and swore she’d never touch one. But by the time she’d turned 15, Tommy had her riding as if she had been her whole life. To outsiders, their friendship would seem an unconventional one, with their four-year age gap seeming too big to make up for in their teenage years. But they found solace in each other. A comfort that neither of them had ever felt in their sorry lives on the streets of Small Heath. And they both knew their friendship was special.

“It was four years last week.” Tommy took a swig from the bottle before passing it to Florence and lying back on the grass. Florence stayed sitting, admiring the vast expanse beyond.

“I know, Tom. I remembered. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to remind you…,” she trailed off. Despite her own mother being dead, Florence never knew what to say about these sorts of things. She herself took her own swig from the bottle before lying back next to him. “I know you don’t like to talk about it much. It’s hard, isn’t it, you want to talk and remember, but you don’t want to be reminded of all the sad parts.”

Tommy didn’t respond right away, just brought his cigarette away from his lips and exhaled deeply. “I still think of her every day, you know.”

“And you will. You’ll probably think of her every day for the rest of your life. I feel bad when I forget to think about my mum some days. You and I both know that she’s here with you. It’s a wonder you’re still alive, but she’s protecting you from all the shit in the world.” Florence sighed, passing the bottle back to Tommy.

Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose. Florence could talk nonsense sometimes, but Tommy revelled in it. Her insights into the way the world worked provided him with endless amusement. “You’re talking like an old woman again, Flo,” he chuckled to himself. He would only chuckle like that when he was with her.

Florence raised her eyebrows, sitting up to tie her long hair back before settling back on the ground with Tommy. “Well, you know I’m right. And everyone says I’ve got an old soul, whatever that means.”

“It means you talk like an old woman.” Tommy discarded the bottle and the cigarette, grabbing Florence’s hand and bringing her fingers to his lips, kissing them tenderly. They had always had an overly affectionate friendship, probably something to do with the lack of physical affection they’d received as children.

Florence was quick to snatch them away. “Well, John doesn’t think so. Apparently he thinks I’m ‘gorgeous’ and hangs onto every word that falls out of my mouth.” She rolled her eyes. Florence had never done well with love. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in Small Heath, but always managed to have a boy trailing behind her. And she never knew how to handle it. She felt like she didn’t know how to love properly when she couldn’t reciprocate the infatuation Tommy’s brother John showed her.

“He’s in love with you, Flo,” Tommy teased, a small smile appearing on his lips. He found Florence and his brother’s little relationship endearing to say the least. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the sex-crazed teenagers seemed to make each other happy for now.

“Just like you’re in love with Greta?” Florence goaded back at him. Tommy and Greta had been together for a few months at that point, and Florence knew that he was completely besotted with her. But their relationship confused her. She could tell he was happy, she was glad he was happy, but a small part of her felt jealous of the love the couple shared. Though she was friends with Greta too, she felt like she had stolen Tommy from her. At the beginning of the relationship, her jealousy was so obvious that had Tommy confronted her about it. ‘Don’t start, Flo,’ he had said, kissing her forehead, ‘I’ve always had time for you, and I always will. Just be happy for me, will you….’ So Florence tried, and was still trying.

“I wouldn’t say that. If he loved you properly, you’d really know about it, and you’d feel the same way.” Tommy sat up and looked at her now. “With me and Greta, things just feel right-.” Florence cut him off. She couldn’t deal with any more of his gushing about Greta.

“You want to marry her, you want her babies, blah blah blah, I’ve heard it all before.” Florence rolled her eyes. “I wish I could just love John. But he deserves better than me.” Her face fell as she said it, a thought she’d been holding in her mind for a while. She stared out at the landscape beyond, unable to meet Tommy’s gaze. 

He grabbed her chin, turning her face to look her in the eye. The pout on her face made her look younger than her 17 years. It reminded him of when she was little, back when they both had mothers and refused to wear shoes. “Eh, where’d that come from? Come on, Flo, don’t be silly. It’s him who doesn’t deserve you.” He kisses the top of her head, pulling her into his chest. 

Florence tried to pull away from him, frustrated that he wasn’t taking her seriously, but he held her close to him. “I’m bad, Tommy. I’m a bad person. I cause trouble,” she spouted. She felt tears prick at her eyes as she expressed her self-doubt. She would never let anyone else see her this vulnerable, and Tommy knew this as he sighed into her hair.

“Bad things have happened to you and me, but that doesn’t mean we’re bad people,” he murmured into her hair just loud enough for her to hear. He pulled her away from him so he could look at her. “And John’s right, you’re gorgeous, Flo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, thanks for reading! this is a rewrite of something i abandoned on fanfiction.net a couple of years ago, i finally found the inspiration (and the time) to revisit it and i'm definitely going to stick with it this time.
> 
> please comment/bookmark/whatever you like, just let me know if you're enjoying it! the next chapter will be coming very soon.
> 
> initialthrow xxx


	2. Alone

She was blonde. Florence knew as much. On Florence’s morning off, a blonde woman had waltzed into The Garrison and somehow bagged a job from Harry. She could sing, he said. Florence wondered how on earth singing made you qualified to work in a pub. He wanted to spend more time with Helen, he said. Florence understood. Her stepmother was dwindling by the day. He didn’t want to rely solely on Florence to run the pub. So, now there was going to be a new blonde barmaid. Something nice for the men to look at.

But for some reason, Florence felt uneasy about the whole situation. So she had sung her way into a job? Florence knew the woman must have some kind of charm about her to manage that. Or maybe it was having to work with someone she had never met before. Despite her recent return, Florence still knew of most people that lived in the area, she knew every familiar face. What reason would someone have to come and settle in a place like Small Heath, a stranger to everyone that lived there? Florence was suspicious to say the least. She knew trouble from a mile off, mainly because she was normally the one causing it. 

Much to her dad’s surprise, Florence had actually managed to behave herself over the first couple of weeks she was home. She’d kept to herself, working shifts in the pub, running errands for her family, and shutting herself up in the room upstairs at a decent hour every night. The war had straightened her out and turned her into a proper young woman, he thought, no more of this troublemaking nonsense. However, she was still yet to visit her stepmother and she hadn’t bothered much with reaching out to her old friends, which he thought was strange. Keeping herself to herself a little too much, he thought.

The morning was brighter than usual in Small Heath. It seemed the smoke had cleared, and Florence could see the blue sky from her window as she woke. The flat upstairs was small, only one room with enough space for a bed in one corner and a tub and sink in the other. She’d managed to squeeze a chest of drawers in and a little stove. It would do for the time being. Every morning, she’d wake with the sunrise and make her tea with a dash (or maybe a little more) of whiskey. She wasn’t one for eating before midday, so she’d busy herself with getting ready while the warmth of her whiskey-tea went to her head. That morning, the morning she was first working with the blonde barmaid, also happened to be her late mother’s birthday. Florence put a bit more effort into her appearance that morning, taking the time to brush her hair properly, putting on one of her mother’s old dresses she’d kept, and applying red lipstick she’d once stolen from Helen. Florence knew she looked more like her mother when she wore makeup. Normally, she wouldn’t bother so much with looking nice, but she made the effort every year for her mum’s birthday, more to make herself feel better than anyone else.

Florence opened the pub a little earlier that morning, just because she felt like it. There were never many customers earlier in the morning anyway, and Florence hated sitting around waiting. The new blonde barmaid also arrived early that morning.

“Hello,” she’d said, as Florence was checking the stock behind the bar. “Harry asked me to come today. I’m Grace.” It sounded more like a question. Florence turned to face her, pulling her hair over her shoulder. The woman was beautiful just as she knew she would be.

Florence cocked her head to one side. “I’m Florence. Harry’s girl. You’re Irish?” She gave Grace a puzzled look. The only time the Irish came to Small Heath was to cause bother. She’d already heard about the new Irish copper that had been concerning the people. She felt unsure of this woman from the moment she’d spoken her first word to her.

“Yes, from Dublin.” Grace nodded at her. She looked wary of Florence, and Florence enjoyed the fact that Grace was intimidated by her in that moment. Florence didn’t take her eyes off her, nodding back at her.

“Right. Let’s get a move on then. Put your stuff out the back,” she gestured to the room behind the bar. “There’s not much to do in here at the moment but things will pick up soon. How are you with numbers?”

*****

It turned out, much to Florence’s surprise, that Grace wasn’t that bad. After their strange introduction, the two women actually managed to find some common ground between them; their mockery of drunken customers. At one point, Florence had to step outside to compose herself because of a remark Grace had whispered to her about the men that were flooding into the pub. They’d been in fits of giggles to the point that she’d gotten a telling off from her dad, who had turned up around lunchtime to help with the rush. He sent her on a break for lunch, which for Florence meant thirty minutes upstairs in her room to sip on more whiskey-rinsed tea and maybe an egg or two to go with it. That day, her late mother’s birthday, she made sure to add a bit more whiskey than usual to her lunchtime tea. A drink in honour of her mother, who she knew would be disappointed in her daughter’s drinking habits, but it didn’t stop her nonetheless. It kept her in bright spirits and helped the day pass a little quicker. The drinking was just what she expected from herself by now. What she didn’t expect though, was for the door to her room to swing open with no warning. What she didn’t expect was Thomas Shelby to be standing on the other side.

Florence could feel the effects of the whiskey as she sat cross-legged on her bed, having kicked off her boots. “Tommy,” she raised her cup to him, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He said nothing, just looked at her for a moment. But she knew the cogs were turning in his head. He was thinking of his next move. Tommy nodded towards her. “You’re still here then?” He pulled out a cigarette, taking out a match to light it before sitting on the end of Florence’s bed with his back to her.

“Yeah, where else would I be?” She scoffed at his back, sipping on her tea. As much as he’d like her to be, she’d never be scared of him. 

“I thought you’d be gone by now. Or moved into your dad’s house. I thought I made it clear that you’re not welcome to stay here.” With that, he turned to look at her, eyes ablaze. Florence didn’t even flinch. She stood her ground. She wouldn’t be made to feel inferior, especially in her own home. She moved slowly from the bed, walking around to face him.

Leaning close to his face, she spoke in a soft tone. “I thought I made it clear that I didn’t give a fuck about what you’ve got to say. I’ll live how I want to live and where I want to live. I don’t care.” Without a moment’s thought, Florence plucked the half-burned cigarette from Tommy’s lips and placed it between her own, turning to walk to the window on the far side of the room.

Tommy took a deep breath to calm himself, watching as she wandered over to the window, her bare feet barely audible against the wooden floor, a hint of her calves visible beneath the hem of her dress. As Florence observed the street below from the window, she could feel his eyes on her. She turned to look at him as she heard him stand and cross the room towards her, but she couldn’t read the expression on his face. At least he didn’t look disappointed anymore.

Taking the cigarette back from Florence, he placed it between his own lips, standing next to her at the window. She placed her hands on her hips and revelled in the silence. The tension they had experienced during their previous encounter was gone. To Florence, it was calm, stoic even. To any onlookers from the street, the sunlight silhouetted the two of them, a man and woman standing side by side. And they looked a picture together, the lady with the ruby-red lips and the gentleman with the piercing eyes. Tommy finally broke the silence. “You haven’t changed, have you? You still can’t take orders from anyone.”

With a look of utter disdain (from the fact he’d interrupted their moment of peace, as well as his stern words), Florence turned to face him. “Orders? You’re not being serious, Tommy?” She shook her head at him, turning to collect her tea cup and plate from her bedside cabinet and place them in the small sink in the corner. As she approached the sink, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She’d forgotten she was wearing makeup that day and almost didn’t recognise herself. She watched Tommy behind her in the mirror, still standing by the window, facing her. For some reason, she hadn’t noticed how different he looked when they’d talked before. His close-cropped hair and sharp jawline were new to her, as well as the dark circles under his eyes that made him look as though he hadn’t slept for months.

“The reason why you can’t stay here is because it’s not safe for you.” He took a small step towards her, awaiting her response. He knew she’d have something to say on the matter since she’d had a quip for everything he’d said since he’d walked through the door. Tommy knew Florence, and she wasn’t one to back down easily, if at all.

Florence turned on her heel, losing her patience with him. “You don’t think I know that already? I’m not stupid. I’ve got a gun,” she gestured to the bag on the floor in the corner. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on her discarded stockings. The familiarity of the sight of Florence hiking her stockings up her legs shocked Tommy. It was as if he’d forgotten how comfortable they’d once been with each other, as if he didn’t remember all of the times they’d gone skinny dipping in ponds together or curled up beside one another barely clothed in his bed when she’d been too drunk to get home.

Tommy raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly at her. “Well, you’re not clever coming back here.” Each word was punctuated by him pointing his cigarette at her. 

Florence spoke as she tied the laces on her boots. “I didn’t expect this from you, Tommy. Maybe from John, I would understand it from John, but not from you. What have I done to make you so mad at me? I thought we’d always be friends, Tom.” Once her laces were tied, she stood from the bed, approaching him slowly as if she was trying not to spook him. “You told me that. That we’d always be friends.” Florence’s hands hung limply at her sides. She wanted to reach out to him, take his hand, stroke his arm, touch him in some way. That had always been the way between the two of them. Though it had never turned romantic before, the physical affection between them was something neither of them could explain.

Tommy avoided her gaze. He’d come here, expecting her to submit to him and let him have control. Instead, she was breaking down the emotional walls that had taken him years to build in a matter of minutes. He didn’t know what she was doing to him, and neither did she. “Greta died a few months after you left.” He blurted it out before he could think about what he was saying. It was as if he couldn’t control himself around her. When Florence spoke, he heard her louder and clearer than the banging against the walls in his head. 

Florence brought her hand up to the bridge of her nose before sliding it down the side of her face. She gave him a sympathetic look. “I know. I heard. And then the war started. I’m so sorry, Tom.” She’d heard about what had happened with Greta through letters from her dad after she went away. She’d wanted to write to Tommy but couldn’t bring herself to. She remembered how much he loved her. At that moment, one of the many pieces of Tommy fell into place for Florence. Much like her, the pain he had experienced since she had been gone had been so raw and deep; he was truly broken. Like her, he wasn’t the same person as before.

Tommy made his way towards the door. He’d had enough of Florence and her digging around for one day. The way she had looked at him had almost sprung tears to his eyes. It’s as if she knew exactly what he felt. She still understood him in a way that no one else did. “Things are different now, Florence,” he said, with his back turned to her. 

Florence was quick to respond, grabbing her apron from the bed. “You don’t think I know that already?” She was already tying it around her waist when he finally turned to face her again. Tommy’s eyes had turned cold and expressionless, like they had been before. He looked almost angry at her. She took a step of defiance towards him in the doorway, tucking her hair behind her ears. He didn’t have the power to intimidate her.

“It’s busy downstairs, you better get to work.” Tommy’s voice was raised as he turned down the stairs, leaving Florence alone. Things are always easier alone, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath before following him. She was torn between not letting him bother her anymore and pushing him to let her in. Florence had a tendency of letting fate decide how things played out.

*****

In the hours after their confrontation Florence knew Tommy was in and out of the pub that afternoon, but she made the conscious decision to let Grace deal with him. She didn’t know if she’d be able to bite her tongue and with her dad around, she didn’t want to be letting loose and causing a scene. Luckily, the pub was packed with men on their way to watch the football, so Florence was so busy that she didn’t have time to spare Tommy a second thought.

“Are you a whore?”

Over the din of the busy pub, the words echoed in her ears. She turned her head just in time to catch Tommy’s eye before Grace closed the window. Grace stood stock still, her eyes wide.

“Stay away from him, Grace.” She found herself whispering to the woman without thinking twice about it.

Lost in her thoughts again, Florence excused herself. It was crowded in the pub, and she felt like she needed some air and a stiff drink. She helped herself to some whiskey from the bottle, before heading to towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” She heard her dad call from behind her, but she didn’t bother giving him a reply.

The air felt fresh in her lungs as she turned and pressed her face against the cool brick. Things were getting bad again. At one point, she’d managed to completely give up with the drinking, yet as soon as she arrived back in Small Heath she’d found herself curling up in bed with a bottle every night. It felt as though this place unlocked every bad feeling she’d ever felt. It was all here, no escaping from it. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself back from the wall, turning and heading away from the pub. If she wanted to feel better, then she needed to face her problems head on instead of letting them fester away in her mind. Florence picked up her pace; like a woman on a mission, head held high, apron still tied around her waist, she knew where to go.

*****

The door was open, ajar, like it had always been years before. Open to her. Ready. What was stopping her from entering were the thoughts bounding around her head. For a time, the house on Watery Lane was a place Florence had considered home. After her dad married her stepmother, she didn’t feel comfortable hanging around her dad’s house anymore. She and her stepmother had never quite seen eye to eye and she always felt like an imposter in their family, especially after Helen fell pregnant with Eddie. But Polly Gray had always kept a quiet eye on Florence. She had been friendly with her mother and noticed the girl dwindling after she died. So she would invite her in for dinner occasionally. Eight-year-old Florence had always gotten along well with her nephews and she watched them become fast friends. By the time Florence was twelve, she was spending almost every evening with them. By the time she was fourteen, they considered her a part of the family. Her relationship with them went past just her close bond with Tommy. Being the same age as John, the two of them shared an unofficial but romantic relationship for the duration of their teenage years. They had a lot of love for each other but didn’t exactly know how to show it. Polly worried about her as her life began to go off the rails, but the young Shelby men joined her, even encouraged her, in her inconspicuous endeavours.

Florence stared at the door, wondering whether she’d still have her place there. Taking a deep breath and wiping her hands on her apron, she nudged the door open and slipped inside.

Silence fell amongst the household as Florence Fenton stepped into their kitchen. She held her breath as all but Tommy looked at her. She noticed that instead he was staring at the wall behind her. She could see the anger in John’s eyes as they drank her in, the shock present on Polly’s face, and Ada looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Arthur was a sight to behold, covered in blood at the kitchen table. “Is this a dream?” Florence heard him murmur to himself.

It was Florence who broke the seconds of silence, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as she began giggling uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…,” she gasped for air, “You just all look a picture.” With that, the kitchen became a flurry of action. Polly and Ada approached Florence in their reunion, while John began shouting something unintelligible. A disinterested Tommy and a pain-stricken Arthur had to grab him by the shoulders to drag him into the other room before he could cause any damage. Florence was able to make out ‘you fucking bitch’ before the door slammed, leaving them in silence once again. Ada stood leaning against the table while Polly held her close, giving her the tightest hug she’d received in years. 

“Let me look at you, Flo, let me see you.” Polly pulled away from her and took a step back, her eyes raking up and down her body. “Just like your mother. Beautiful.” The sight of Florence standing before her brought tears to Polly’s eyes. Florence was the daughter she’d never gotten to raise. It was as if she’d watched the little girl grow up from street rat to young woman right before her eyes. “I always knew you’d be back, Flo.”

Their moment was interrupted by Arthur coming back into the kitchen, giving a chance for Florence to really take in the extent of his injuries. She nodded towards him. “Florence,” he jeered at her, “I’d hug you but I don’t want to cover you in blood.”

“What the hell happened to you? I’d have thought you dead if you weren’t making so much noise.” Florence smiled at him. She’d never been as close to Arthur as she had been with the others, but she’d always thought of him fondly as something of an older brother. Arthur had always been protective of her on account of the fact that he still saw that eight-year old girl in front of him whenever he looked at her.

Polly smirked, “Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart. Sit down while we clean him up.”

Florence stayed standing, glad that she was actually useful for something now. “Actually, I was a nurse on the front for a while. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll take care of it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone!
> 
> thanks so much for reading, let me know what you think so far. what do you make of my oc florence?
> 
> initialthrow xxx


	3. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! thank you for reading, and let me know what you think!
> 
> initialthrow xxx

It had been years since Florence and Polly had sat down for a cup of tea at the kitchen table together. There was once a time when Florence would pop in to see Polly every few days. They too shared something of a bond, with Polly playing the role of Florence’s surrogate mother, watching over her after Mary Fenton passed away. As the pot began to boil on the stove, Polly reflected on the years she’d known Florence, as well as the years she hadn’t. From the tiny girl with the dirty face and scraped up knees, to the woman that now sat in the kitchen, Polly never could have predicted her leaving Small Heath so many years prior. It was a blow to the family that took everyone by surprise. It had hurt them all deeply and left a scar that had never really healed. Polly often found her mind wandering to the different what ifs. What if Florence had stayed? Would she and John have been married eventually, or would she have found her way to Tommy? Polly had been waiting for the latter to happen for a couple of years before Florence had left. From the way Tommy and Florence were with each other, it was obvious to anyone that it was blind love. But the two of them refused to accept it. If Florence had accepted it, would she still have gone? Questions circled Polly’s mind as she poured their tea.

Florence sat quietly behind Polly. She too was deep in thought. It had been a taxing day for her and the sun hadn’t even set yet. There was no problem patching Arthur up, just basic first aid and a couple of stitches, but she always took her time with those she cared for. It took her back to her days in France, working hard to put broken men back together again. Most of the time she couldn’t do it. It was a comfort to know that she could help Arthur. Being preoccupied with cleaning him up had distracted Florence from the muffled shouts of John and Tommy in the adjacent room. John’s reaction to her was as expected - she knew him too well to think that he would take her return well. He had always been a bubbling pot of emotions and Florence found comfort in the fact he hadn’t changed. France hadn’t turned him into an emotionless shell like Tommy.

Polly turned to face her with two cups of tea, pushing one towards her across the table. The house was now quiet, empty in comparison to the bustling chaos not an hour earlier. 

Polly cleared her throat. “So, where have you been?” Polly’s eyes were stern, as if trying to read Florence’s mind.

Florence sipped at her tea. “I went to France.” She said, a polite smile on her face.

“You’re not stupid, Flo. You know what I meant.” Polly watched as the smile dropped from Florence’s face. “Where did you go before the war? Did you think you could just up and leave and not have anyone ask questions?” Her eyes held a seriousness Florence hadn’t experienced before.

“I just had to go. My dad had enough of me misbehaving and he sent me away.” Florence said quickly, resisting the question. It was as if telling the truth would make the nightmare she had experienced before the war real.

“Where? Where did he send you?” Polly demanded, raising her voice. It was desperation that drove Polly’s attempts to unveil Florence’s secret. She knew it had to be something bad for Florence to be covering it up in such a way.

Florence just looked at her for a moment, before closing her eyes to ward away the tears she felt coming. “I can’t tell you. And you know I can’t lie to you. I’m really sorry that I left… I wish I could’ve stayed. I didn’t have a choice.” She gulped, looking up at her once she was sure the tears were gone.

Polly let it go. She knew if she pushed the girl too far she’d never be able to get through to her. But little by little, she planned to chip away at Florence until she discovered the truth. A truth that had caused so much chaos had to be worth something.

“What happened, after I left? It seems no one can stand to be around me for too long now,” Florence spoke up, although part of her already knew what the answer would be.

Polly shook her head at her. “What do you expect? You left a string of broken hearts behind you. John was inconsolable, absolutely fucking heartbroken. He thought the world of you. Had plans to marry you, you know. For the past few years he’s had one heartbreak after another. I assume you’ve heard about what happened to Martha.”

Florence nodded. “She was my friend, remember? The last thing I wanted to do was hurt anyone. Especially John. He was always too good for me.”

Polly continued. “And you let Tommy down when he needed you. He thought you were always the person he could count on, and then suddenly he couldn’t find you anywhere. He actually went out searching for you, nearly tore the whole bloody neighbourhood apart. He threatened your dad to try and find out where you’d gone and I had to stop him from doing him some serious harm.” Polly stopped to take a sip of her tea. “Eventually something changed. The love he had for you turned to pure hatred at some point. He’s fighting that love now. I think he’s realising how much he’s missed you.”

“We always needed each other. Me and Tom.” Florence said, her mind wandering to the friendship they once shared.

“You still need each other.” Polly said it with such conviction that it took Florence by surprise. Her head shot up to look at her, eyes wide.

Florence’s strong facade began to crumble under the pressure of the conversation. Her face dropped into her hands, and Polly rushed to the other side of the table to pull her in for a hug.

“I didn’t mean it. I know I’ve hurt him bad. He’s so angry with me, Pol. Everyone is so fucking angry.” She choked back a sob.

Polly couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Florence like this. By nature she was a hard person when it came to showing emotion, and yet here she was near enough having a breakdown at the kitchen table. It was something Polly was unaccustomed to, and yet it felt natural as she walked to the opposite side of the table and held Florence’s face in her hands.

“Unless you’re going to tell me what happened, I can’t help you. It’s up to you to fix this yourself.” Polly said, trying her best to comfort the broken girl before her. The sound of a door opening interrupted the two women as John slipped into the kitchen, a toothpick between his lips and fire in his eyes.

Taking the hint, Polly stood, leaving Florence sitting with her back to John. She knew it was him from the sound of his tread on the floor. His footsteps had always been the heaviest of the family and it was never a secret when he was stalking about the house.

Polly wandered over to John, whispering, “Go easy on her,” before exiting the room.

Florence knew this confrontation was coming from the moment she’d arrived back in Small Heath. Luckily she’d managed to avoid him so far, by some small miracle she’d had the evening off every time he’d come to The Garrison. 

John cleared his throat and Florence turned to look at him. She was the one to speak up first. “I’m really sorry.” Her apology was sincere, but that didn’t stop John’s face from contorting into a frustrated expression she was unfamiliar with.

“You’re sorry - that’s all you’ve got to say? You’re fucking sorry?!” The volume of John’s voice rose exponentially as he spoke, his fists clenched by his sides. Florence knew he was trying to contain his anger. She knew this was too much for him and yet she didn’t know what to say. She had gone over this conversation hundreds of times in her head, but now faced with it she was speechless. Nothing she could say would make things better, and she knew that.

“Yeah, I am.” Florence stayed calm as she spoke. “I know you’re angry with me, I left you without an explanation. I shouldn’t have done it, but at the time I didn’t have a choice. My dad needed me to go and for once in my life I did as I was told.” She blurted it out all at once and stood from her chair. It took courage to approach him, but she did. She took note of the fact that he was slightly taller than he was at 18 - he now towered over her and it made her feel small. Florence didn’t like feeling small.

Florence watched his nostrils flare as he watched her reach for him. She knew it was wrong to do this to him, but she wanted to calm him somehow. She could practically feel the fury radiating from him. Reaching up, she stroked his arm with the lightest of touches. He stood as if frozen to the spot.

“Do you know you leaving was the start of everything going wrong?” He said. “You were gone, then there was the war, then fucking…” He trailed off.

“I know. I already know everything that happened.” Florence had been kept updated about her old friends through letters from her father, who knew everything about everyone because of working in the pub. She had heard about John and her friend Martha’s short engagement and marriage six months after she left. She knew about their four children. She knew that Martha had died of consumption not long after the birth of the last one. She gulped at the thought of her friend going to an early grave, but she felt more so for John. She could tell he was a broken man, no longer the smiling boy that kissed her at every opportunity and told her he’d give her the world. That person was gone, changed, just as she was.

“I’ve worked out it was you who made the bad things happen by leaving. You’re to blame for all of it, Florence. Now fuck off.” John’s words were full of venom but Florence could tell he was conflicted. He wanted to go to her and let her make things better, but at the same time it was her fault he felt like this in the first place. John and Florence may have shared feelings for each other once, but that didn’t mean they were ever any good for each other.

Florence jerked away from John, finishing her gentle caress at his shoulder. She would accept that she’d done him wrong, but she wouldn’t let him blame her for all of the tragedy in his life. “I didn’t make any bad things happen, John. That’s just life. Shit happens, and then you get over it, and then more shit happens. That’s just the way it is.” With that, Florence turned away from him and moved to grab her discarded apron from the kitchen table. “I won’t have you blaming me for everything. I didn’t kill her, John.”

Florence didn’t look back as she exited the Shelby residence, infuriated by John’s words. She should’ve known he’d react like that. Their relationship had always been fiery, fuelled by the thrill of their kiss-and-make-up routine they had. She should’ve known he’d still be mad at her six years after the fact. John had never been one to let go until the deal was well and truly done.

Arriving back at The Garrison, her face red and her hair all over the place, Florence resumed her shift as if she hadn’t just skipped work for a couple of hours. She was thankful that the pub was now quiet and her dad had already left, meaning she wouldn’t have to take any sour words from him until the following day. Wordlessly, Florence joined Grace behind the bar, and she appreciated the fact that Grace didn’t question where she’d been or what exactly had her looking in such a state.

It wasn’t until that night when they were closing the pub that Grace really started to step on Florence’s toes. The two women had been sharing menial small talk, mainly Florence quizzing Grace about her life in Ireland, when Grace chose to bring up the Shelby’s once more.

“Why don’t they pay?” She had asked Florence as they mopped the pub together. Florence stopped in her movements, turning to look at Grace with narrowed eyes.

“It doesn’t matter why they don’t pay. Don’t ask questions about them. And you’d be doing yourself a favour if you stay away from them. God knows why I can’t…” Florence shook her head at herself. Grace didn’t respond to her, instead moving to dispose of the mop water outside. 

Florence took a deep breath. It felt like it was the only moment she’d had to herself all day. In the privacy of the dimly lit pub, she helped herself to a swig from an open bottle of whiskey from behind the bar before Grace came back inside. All she wanted was to go to sleep and wake up as far away from here as possible. She reminded herself that she was the one that made the decision to come back, but she didn’t realise how difficult it would be to face the destruction she’d left behind. By then she’d forgotten it was her mum’s birthday.

*****

Before her morning shift began the following day, Florence made sure to pop in on Arthur. She’d promised him she would, even though there wasn’t much to be done. Florence thought Arthur just liked her company, despite all of the conflict she’d managed to cause. Luckily, there seemed to be nobody else in the house early that morning, so she tended to him in peace.

He was slumped in the same kitchen chair as before, looking slightly less dishevelled. 

“You’re here,” Arthur said as she let herself into the house. She knew he’d leave the door unlocked for her, and it was always left unlocked for most of the day anyway.

“Of course I’m here. Said I’d be here, didn’t I?” Florence huffed. She’d awoken in a mood to match the devil, still reeling from the previous day. Florence had never been one to hold a grudge, but it just took a while for her anger to subside.

She placed her basket of medical supplies on the kitchen table. She thought his wounds could do with some proper cleaning and not just with a rinse of whiskey, so she’d taken the time to gather some things together.

“Couldn’t crack a smile for me today, could you love?” Arthur said, watching Florence as she removed items from the basket in a huff. A small smile appeared on her lips.

“Sorry, Arthur,” she said as she began removing his bandages. “I suppose you heard about everything that went on yesterday?”

“I heard every fucking word. You can hear everything through the walls in this house, you should know that.” He winced as she began dabbing at the gash on his face with a cloth. Her brow creased at his comments. He could tell she was hurt by what John had said, but Arthur was never any good with words. He tried to comfort her anyhow. “If it makes any difference, I’m happy you’re back. We could do with some good news around here after… you know, everything.”

Florence scoffed at his words. “Well, no one else is particularly happy about it, it seems. But it doesn’t matter. I came back here to help my family.” It was a white lie. She did come back to help her dad out, but also because she was lonely. She wanted to feel the same way she did years earlier, when she was surrounded by friends and was troubled by nothing.

“We were your family once, Flo. Let the dust settle, it’ll be alright.” We were your family once, Flo. Arthur’s words echoed in her mind. There was a time when she had considered them more her family than her own dad. There was a small part of her then that felt comforted knowing that eventually, things would be alright. At some point, they’d have to forgive her. At some point after all of the bad, things would be okay. That was how life worked, so Florence thought.

“Since when did you get so full of wisdom, eh?” She said as she began packing her things back into the basket. 

“Since I started drinking whiskey at 5 o’clock this morning.” Arthur held up his glass to her before taking a sip.

Florence let a chuckle slip. “Me too,” She muttered under her breath. “Good news, looks like you’re going to live after all. Just keep it clean. I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Arthur.” With that, she let herself out. She wasn’t in a particular mood to chat.

For the first time since she’d arrived in Small Heath weeks ago, Florence found herself drawn to the church. She hadn’t always been religious, but her mother had. Florence found herself turning to God in France, where prayer comforted her about the horrors she had witnessed. She wasn’t strictly religious, but it made her feel better to believe there was a higher power watching over her. It was only occasionally that she’d find herself wandering to a place of worship, but it was normally when she felt she needed guidance. So she let her feet carry her to where she needed to go. There was still some time before her shift was meant to start.

Florence was alone in the church. The pew was cold when she sat down. The whole church was cold, but Florence didn’t even shiver. She just sat, staring towards the altar, thinking and thinking and thinking. She spent a lot of time doing that, her thoughts confined only to her mind. It was at this point she realised how truly alone she felt. In the war, the nurses had always confided in each other, and Florence had taken comfort in the fact that she always had someone she could trust nearby. Now, here she was, sitting in a dark, cold church, completely lost from herself. At that moment, there was nobody to turn to.

She shook the forbidding feeling from her frame, standing from the pew and walking towards the altar of the church. She took a match from her pocket and lit three candles; one for her step-mother, one for the men she had cared for, and a final candle for the person that she thought of the most.

“For you, little one,” she whispered.


	4. Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!
> 
> i got a bit stuck with this chapter for a while for some reason, i think because i really struggle to write pre-war tommy and florence. but i got there in the end.
> 
> hope you enjoy and like always please let me know what you think!
> 
> initialthrow xxx

It had been over a month now, and finally Florence had settled into the rhythm of life in Birmingham. Still comforted by the whiskey in her tea, she’d taken it day by day, and suddenly found life passing her by faster than she could think about it. Surprisingly after the pub walkout fiasco, her dad had seen it fit to give her more shifts in the pub, and she had worked practically every day except Sundays since. Florence knew that deep down it was because of her stepmother’s declining health. She was still yet to visit her family home, if she could call it that. Since her stepmother had moved in twelve years prior, it hadn’t been her home any more, but it hadn’t felt like her home since her mother had died. She and her stepmother had never seen eye to eye. Helen had taken every opportunity possible over the last twelve years to make Florence feel unwelcome, like she didn’t have a place in the family, and Florence hoped that she was happy since she had succeeded. A small part of her resented her dad for never taking her side, but she hadn’t exactly made things easy for him. From the day her stepmother moved in, it had been Florence’s personal mission to cause as much trouble as possible, an art she’d refined over time. The following years involved sneaking out of the house, dancing on tables, getting too drunk to stand, not coming home until the following morning (or going missing for days), thieving, lying, fighting, fooling around with John Shelby, the occasional line of cocaine, and much more. As far as Florence knew, she was having the time of her life, while her father couldn’t sleep for the worry of it. She knew it was only a matter of time until they’d try to get rid of her, whatever the circumstances may be. 

She would see her younger brother, Eddie, out playing in the streets every day. They had never been particularly close, but she felt for the boy. She knew what it was like to have a sick and ailing mother, so she would always take the time to bring him a treat when she was out running her weekly errands. Whether it be sweets or a new little toy to play with, she knew it made all the difference to have something to look forward to when things were bad. That was how Florence was introduced properly to young Finn Shelby. Of course she knew who he was; she’d spent a lot of time around the little boy when he was a toddler, not that he remembered. The two became quickly reacquainted when Florence discovered that Finn and Eddie were playmates, and soon she was bringing sweets for the both of them.

That morning she was doing exactly that, greeting the boys with a smile on her face and handing them a small brown bag of goodies. A chorus of “thank you” was enough for Florence, and she turned to continue with her day. She wore a blue dress that matched the sky, and along with her signature boots and coat it was enough to make heads turn. Florence took pride in being different to the other women in Small Heath. She enjoyed the fact that people looked at her and she pretended not to notice. Caught up in her own head, her boots thudded on the cobblestones like usual. She wasn’t paying much attention to the goings on around her until she turned the corner and saw the commotion ahead of her. It looked as though all of the houses had been looted and there was uproar in the streets, with people trying to collect their belongings that were strewn about the road. 

Florence’s hand flew to her mouth as she stopped in her tracks. “What the fuck…” she whispered under her breath.

“Excuse me, sir, what happened here?” She stopped a man who was collecting things in the street.

“The coppers are raiding houses, apparently looking for communists,” the man responded, before continuing past her.

Florence had no choice but to continue on her way. She wanted to help people but she knew her manpower alone would be no use. Her feet moved faster than she could think, and before she knew it she had entered the front door of 6 Watery Lane. She found Polly in the kitchen and not a man in sight.

“Where are they?” Florence seethed as she moved across the room, peering out of the window at the chaos in the street outside. 

“Good afternoon, Flo, a hello would be nice. They’ve all gone to the fair. And before you start, I already know what’s going on out there.” Polly sat with pursed lips, clearly as mad as Florence at the situation.

She turned quickly on her heel to face Polly. “And what is it that you already know? Because I’m sure that it’s more than just rounding up communists.”

Polly didn’t get a chance to answer, because the front door opened and in walked just the people Florence was looking for. Again, Florence didn’t bother saying hello.

“So, you lot all just fucked off to the fair while the coppers tear people’s houses apart? You’re working with them now?” Florence pointed accusingly at the brothers as they piled into the kitchen, along with several other men. She recognised them as Peaky Blinders but didn’t know them by name.

Tommy looked towards the ceiling, shaking his head in exasperation, his expression unreadable. “Jesus Christ, Florence.” 

Before anyone of them could respond properly to Florence’s accusation, Polly stepped in. “For fuck’s sake, everyone sit down.” They did as they were told, with Florence joining the men at the table, her arms folded and her face sour. She was surprised when John offered her beer from the bucket, but she gratefully accepted. She was even more surprised that she wasn’t asked to leave - Florence was under the impression that the Shelby family and by association the Peaky Blinders wanted nothing to do with her after the reception she had received weeks prior. Yet here she was, a welcome member of their personal assembly. She took it as a sign. Maybe things were getting better, maybe things were settling down like Arthur said it would. 

Once everyone was settled, Polly got on with it quickly. “The coppers told everyone Arthur had agreed to it when he was arrested.” She looked around at the table. “They said the Peaky Blinders had cleared out to the fair to let them do it.”

Arthur slammed his glass down on the table. “I never said nothing to that copper about smashing up bloody houses.”

“All right. Which pubs did they do?” Tommy broke the silence, putting the question into the room. But he was only looking at Florence. She didn’t hear Polly’s response as she held Tommy’s lingering eye contact. He was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the table from her, a cigarette hanging between his lips. She felt as though he was trying to tell her something. Tommy had never been a man of many words, but just one look had Florence second guessing herself.

“… only one they didn’t touch was The Garrison.”

It was as if at that moment everyone remembered Florence was in the room, as they all turned to look at her at the mention of The Garrison. She was snapped out of her staring contest with Tommy by the sudden attention and raised her glass to everyone. “Thank fuck for that,” she uttered, smirking indignantly. John snorted at her comment.

Polly continued. “Make sure people think we’re in on it. He’s smart, this copper.” As the men began to disperse, following Tommy’s orders, Florence remained at the table. Her finger traced the rim of her now empty glass as she braced herself for a long afternoon of heavy lifting and consolation, ignoring the room around her. Blocking out noise was something she’d gotten good at over the years. The only downside was it meant getting lost in her head. 

“Flo, you don’t work on Sundays?” She was broken from her thoughts by Polly’s question. She shook her head no, glancing around the now empty room. She had hoped to catch Tommy before he went wandering off again to question him about why he’d been eyeing her up. Despite being everywhere all at once, the man was always hard to find. “Then go on down the lane to John’s house and keep an eye on the kids.”

Florence was gobsmacked at Polly’s suggestion. She had never taken well to being a babysitter because as she insisted repeatedly, children didn’t like her. She hadn’t even met John’s kids yet. “You’re joking? You want me to stay and watch the kids? I’m going to out to help people.”

She began to rise from her seat as John appeared in the doorway. “Please, Flo.” He said, a pleading tone to his voice. He didn’t give her a chance to respond before pulling on his hat and exiting the house behind the other men.

*****

Florence had never been one for cooking, but having four hungry children asking her for dinner, she had no choice but to make them something. John’s kids weren’t as bad as she thought they would be. They were very dirty, as were most of the kids that played in the streets in Small Heath. The youngest one, Maggie, who couldn’t be more than two, hadn’t left her hip since she’d arrived that afternoon, but the others had been unsure of her at first. Two boys and two girls, all the picture of their parents.

“I’m Flo, a friend of your dad’s. I’ve come to look after you.” She looked around at them, shrugging off her coat and hanging it up beside the door.

“Are you our new mum?” One of the boys asked as he sat on the stairs wide-eyed.

Flo smiled at him. “No, sweetheart. I’m just here to look after you for today.”

“Aunt Polly says that we’re to call everyone Aunty and Uncle. Shall we call you Aunty Flo?” Katie, the eldest, questioned. At about six years old, she was the most like Martha of the four of them, and it had broken Florence’s heart a little to see her old friend’s daughter having to navigate the world without a mum like she did. 

They weren’t difficult children; they’d played amongst themselves for most of the day while she’d tended to little Maggie. She’d made them a stew from the little food she could find in the cupboards. It wasn’t anything special, but she could tell they appreciated having a warm meal in their bellies. It wasn’t long after dinner before John returned to the house, and of all things, drunk. All the children rushed to him apart from Maggie, who was being held by Florence, almost knocking him off his feet as he staggered in the doorway. John caught her gaze as she was watching him and gave her a smile. 

“Alright, come on. All of you upstairs, get ready for bed.” John approached Florence and took Maggie from her arms. “Stay here for a drink.” It sounded like more of a demand than a question, but Florence was willing to stick around. For the first time in a long time, she’d had a dry afternoon minus the beer several hours earlier, and the sobriety was beginning to take its toll on her.

She made her way to the kitchen to clean up, trying to make herself useful while she was waiting. She didn’t hear John come downstairs.

“Sorry about the other day.” Florence jumped, turning from the sink with a hand pressed to her chest at the sound of John’s voice. He stood with a glass of whiskey in each hand, now in just his rolled-up shirt sleeves. He must have left his jacket upstairs.

“Good. You should be fucking sorry. It wasn’t right, what you said to me,” she said, her voice stern, retrieving a glass of whiskey from him. She’d struggled with John’s words. The guilt had eaten her up inside for days afterwards. “I could bloody smack you, John.”

Florence followed John as he headed into the front room, settling on the old sofa next to him. “‘Didn’t have time to think of what I wanted to say to you before you showed up. Seeing you there… you bloody do things to me, Flo,” he slurred. “Don’t fucking pretend you know how things were when you left. I didn’t know what to do without you.” His face was screwed up in scorn, remembering the day he woke up and simply couldn’t find the girl he loved.

She reached a hand towards his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I’ve said I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice,” she said. 

Florence knew he was upset because he wouldn’t look at her. “Those months after you left were the worst of my life. Even after fucking France. I didn’t know what do with myself.” John shook his head, placing his glass of whiskey down and bringing his face to his hands. “Martha was like a bloody angel, being with her made me forget about all of the bad stuff, about you. Then she fucking left me as well.”

With that, Florence stood to crouch in front of him, taking his hands from his face and holding them in her own. “Sorry about Martha, John. She was my friend, I know she was an angel. God bless her.” Her last sentence came out as a whisper. John stood too, bringing Florence with him and holding her in an embrace so tight she thought he’d break her. She brought a hand up to run through his short, cropped hair, unfamiliar to touch. He’d kept it longer years ago. After a moment, they pulled away, both their eyes wet with unshed tears. 

Florence broke the silence as they stared at each other. “You’re one of my oldest friends, John, but we were never meant to end up together. We weren’t very good for each other, were we?” She gave him a sad smile and he reached up to hold her face in his hands.

“I still can’t believe you’re here, Flo.” He was shaking his head again, as if he couldn’t believe she was real. Florence moved from his grasp and they sat side by side once more.

Florence reached for her glass of whiskey, taking a sip, her eyes on John. “Do you forgive me, then?” 

“Do I fucking forgive you?” He replied, scoffing at the question, forcing back a smile.

“Yeah. Do you?” She looked at him with amusement, tossing her hair over one shoulder. 

John turned to her, a cheeky look on his face. Finally, a look that Florence knew. “Tell you what, you can earn my forgiveness by watching the kids more often,” he said. 

She responded with a chuckle. “Well, that’s fine by me. They’ve been lovely today.” Florence set her now empty glass down. 

“Fucking lovely? They’re little shits most of the time.” John looked genuinely shocked at her claim. The kids had been nothing but trouble since their mother had passed away and the fact that Florence thought they could be anything but had the wheels turning in his mind.

Florence smacked his shoulder as they both laughed. “Oh, fuck off, John. They remind me of you.”

*****

The year was 1911. It was winter, and the cold air kissed the skin of the teenagers as they kissed each other, groping for more in the darkness. The only sound that interrupted the silence of the street was the clacking of heels on the ground and the telltale rustling of clothes.

Florence giggled. “Stop it, John. Everyone’s waiting for us.” Just moments earlier, she had shimmied down the drainpipe in her kitten heels into John’s arms - as usual, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She knew her dad would lose it if he discovered her out of bed with John Shelby for another night but she didn’t care. As she shoved John away from her playfully, she retrieved a bottle of gin from the inside pocket of her coat and took a sip. Passing him the bottle, she skipped ahead. “Come on, then,” she teased. 

“Oi, wait!” He trailed behind her like a lost puppy.

They quickly reached the others grouped outside the dance hall. There were more than ten of them and Florence recognised a few faces. She approached the group with John’s arm looped over her shoulder and a smile present on her face, and Tommy turned to look in her direction just as she reached them.

“Hello, trouble,” he said. He too greeted her with a smile. Tommy’s endearing nickname for Florence had come about a couple of years earlier when she’d first started sneaking out to spend nights with them and it became clear that she quite literally brought trouble with her everywhere she went. Without hesitation, Florence pulled herself from John’s grasp and went straight for Tommy’s arms as he embraced her. Not that John minded very much as he busied himself with chatting to one of the other girls in the group.

Florence pulled away, about to speak, but was silenced by Tommy grabbing her face in both hands.

“Tom, what are you-” He observed her closely, his eyes focused on her hairline where the bruise was. It was barely visible now, with it being a couple of days old, and she didn’t expect Tommy to notice it.

Tommy ran a thumb over her injury. “What’s this then, eh?” Some women would be flattered by such attentiveness, but not Florence. She often loathed the fact that Tommy had learned to read her like a book, like his own personal diary, and that he noticed when things were different about her before she could even notice them herself.

Florence shrugged his hands away from her. “Banged my head on the bar again, didn’t I? I’m fine, though. I don’t need you to give the bar a talking to.” She threw her head back in drunken laughter, but her eyes quickly caught Tommy’s once again. He gave her a small smile, but he wasn’t laughing and she knew why. He’d already told her on multiple occasions that her safety wasn’t a joke to him, even a little bump to her head riled him up. It was just the way things were between them. They took care of each other.

“Oh, Tom…” she said, feeling his disappointment at her lack of understanding. She went to reach for him, but was quickly interrupted.

“Come on then, let’s get inside before the rain starts.” She heard John holler from over her shoulder before he grabbed her around the middle, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek. “Come on, love.” He whispered in her ear as he led her inside, the others filing in behind them.

Florence had been to the dance hall a handful of times before. You could barely call it a dance hall, it really being more of a community centre. But every other Saturday they’d bring in the record player and dim the lights a little and the youth would congregate. And goodness, did they congregate. Inside, hoards of people had gathered, some couples dancing together in the middle of the room and other stationary groups clustered at the sides. There was a tipsy buzz about the room. She felt John’s hands behind her, pulling her coat from her shoulders, and she stopped him to remove the bottle she had hidden away in the pocket. She flashed him a smile, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before he moved away to discard their coats.

Twisting the lid of the bottle and taking long swig, she turned to find Tommy next to her once again. He moved to prise the bottle from her hands before she could drink any more. 

“Want me to look after that for you?” He tried to pretend like he was teasing her, but she knew that he wouldn’t be giving her the bottle back any time soon.

“Give me the bottle, Tommy.” She muttered to him, catching his wrist as tried to turn his back on her.

He ignored her, shrugging her off and instead moving away into the crowd with her bottle of booze in hand.

“Thomas, give it back!” Florence’s voice was louder now. She was losing her patience. Ever since she and John had become an item or whatever they were, Tommy had issues with her drinking around John. It was alright when it was just the two of them together. Just a week previously they had ended up falling asleep in the stables because they’d had too much to drink. It was as though he didn’t trust John to look out for her like he did.

“What the bloody hell’s going on?” John reappeared suddenly, and she turned to look at him. Her annoyance at Tommy melted away when she saw the smile on his face. His eyes were so bright on night’s like that. 

Florence moved closer to him so he could hear her over the din of the room. “Nothing, John. Dance with me,” she whispered in his ear suggestively. 

She dragged him into the crowd, swaying to the music. The two of them danced to the music for a while, pressed together as one, and Florence felt John’s lips brushing against her earlobe as he made his way down to her neck, pressing kisses to the soft skin. In that moment, in her drunken stupor, Florence forgot where they were and captured John’s lips in a burning kiss. They pulled at each other, trying to get impossibly close, and she could feel John’s hands on her backside. And just like that, the feeling was gone. Florence opened her eyes to see Tommy holding John by the collar, looking deeply disappointed.

“That’s enough. I’m taking you home,” he said, pointing a finger at Florence. His voice was stern and she knew there was no arguing with him. This hadn’t been the first time he’d done this, and it wouldn’t be the last. She’d worked it out a while ago, that Tommy couldn’t stand to see John so close to her, but he would never admit it. 

“What the fuck, Tommy,” John said in protest, but before he could do anything Tommy had taken Florence by the wrist and was pulling her from the dance hall. She felt his fingers digging into her and she could tell he was mad.

Florence waited until they were outside before she spoke up. “Are you for real, Tom? We were just kissing,” she said, flapping her arms angrily. 

Tommy just watched her, before stopping to light a cigarette. His lack of commentary on the matter infuriated her further. “You’re drunk, Flo,” he muttered as he shrugged off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. She hadn’t even realised that she was shivering.

“So are half the people in there. And I’m not that drunk, Tom. What’s your problem, eh? Is it me and John?” Maybe that was why Tommy took to Florence like he did. She had never been afraid to confront him with the truth. She wasn’t scared of the violence or the hardship. She just saw him as a man. He needed someone like that to tell him what’s what.

“You’re fucking drunk, now let’s go home.” His booming voice punctuated the end of the conversation. Florence knew she’d pushed him far enough and that was that. Despite his abrupt tone with her, Tommy slung his arm around Florence’s shoulders as they walked together.

She wrapped both arms around his waist and she felt his fingers rubbing at her shoulder as they began their silent descent back into the heart of Small Heath. She took a deep breath in, inhaling the smell of him, a comfort to her.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I love you more than I love John.”

*****

Tommy thought back to that time, when things were so much less complicated and so much more colourful, as he watched Florence clearing tables through the doorway of the snug. She hadn’t noticed it had been left open and he had a clear view of her working. He liked to keep an eye on her, maybe because that was what he was used to with Florence. He wanted to keep her out of trouble and he also just liked watching her. She had changed just as he had. She was harder now, both in appearance and personality it seemed. Her face had lost the childlike roundness and had instead been replaced with a sharp jaw to go with those striking eyes. Her body held more of a womanly shape than it did before, complemented by the apron she wore that cinched in at the waist. In spite of her changes, she had always been beautiful to him, stunning him with both her appearance and mind, though he’d never admit it. Still, Tommy felt a sense of disappointment towards her that he couldn’t shake, but he wanted to keep her close.

In the past weeks, Florence had been in his thoughts more than he would have liked her to be. When he dreamt of France, he dreamt of her there with him, buried and choking in the mud. The revelation that she was there on the front too had left him reeling. The fact that she’d be willing to put herself in such danger frustrated him to no end. But he knew that was just her. She was strong and she’d do anything to help others.

Tommy downed the glass of whiskey he had been holding in one and placed his glass down before rising from his seat.

He cleared his throat. “Florence.” She looked up at him, eyes wide but not surprised. Of course she knew he was there all along.

“Yes, Tommy?” She replied, her voice sweet, aware of Grace watching their interaction from the bar. She wasn’t going to bite his head off while they were in company. 

“You’re coming to Cheltenham with me.” His voice was firm. It wasn’t a question.

Florence almost laughed in at his statement. “Am I now?” She bit her bottom lip, shaking her head in disbelief.

Tommy was already heading for the door. “Wear something nice.”

“Are you for real? I always wear something nice,” She called after him. Florence wouldn’t admit it, but it was nice to have a conversation with Tommy that wasn’t driven by hostility. 

He stopped at the door, before turning around to face her again. “Something red. I haven’t seen you in red for a long time.” And with that, he was gone.

For the first time, Grace had no questions to ask about him.


End file.
